Welcome to Wicked Rae's.
Population: anyone who's tired of performing. Hours: 45 minutes at a time. More if you need it. Dress code: shoes off. Phone in the basket. The rest is up to you.
Here's the deal.
This is a small black-lit room in Seattle.
Inside it, there's loud music. Neon paint. Tennis rackets. Punching bags. Balloons full of paint. Drums. A dog named Bones-Fish who runs the door.
Outside it, the world is watching you. Grading you. Rating you. Tracking how many steps you took, how many hours you slept, how productive you were today.
Inside the room, nobody's watching. Nobody's grading. You're allowed to scream. You're allowed to laugh till you snort. You're allowed to look ridiculous.
That's the whole pitch.
How we got here.
A mother and a daughter built this place.
The mother (me, Jules) was busy performing herself into the ground for two decades. Sleep medicine. Industrial-organizational psychology. Wildland firefighting. Smart enough to know the cost. Tired enough to not pay attention.
The daughter (Oakley, but everyone calls her Frankie) said, "Mom. Stop performing. Come back to your first love. Art."
So we did. We rented a small space. Painted it. Put black lights in the ceiling. Cranked the music. Stocked it with paint and noise and softness and chaos.
A dog named Bones-Fish showed up in 2015 and made himself Chief Morale Officer.
That's the founding myth. Mother. Daughter. Dog. A small black-lit room.
Who comes to Wicked Rae's?
A woman from Microsoft in Australia told us she wasn't coming to the U.S. until she heard her team was visiting our studio. She said we didn't disappoint. We didn't.
Corporate teams from Microsoft, Amazon, and Meta. Nonprofits. Foster youth. Veterans. Neurodivergent kids who've been told their whole lives they're "too much." Bachelorettes who want to scream. Nine-year-olds at birthday parties. Brides. Grief groups. Retreats.
A thousand of them, give or take.
They walk in carrying their whole lives. They walk out saying things like:
I feel like a kid again.
I haven't laughed this hard in years.
I didn't know I needed this.
That's our review section. We didn't write it. They did.
What this place is not.
This is not a paint and sip. There is no sip. There is no easel.
This is not a rage room. We're not handing you a baseball bat and a TV.
This is not therapy. Your therapist is great. We are not them.
This is not a polished event space. We have a dog. The dog has opinions.
What this place is.
A small room where you can stop performing.
A space where the surveillance ends at the door.
A medicine cabinet with no labels, only colors.
A return to the version of you that used to play.
What we do for different humans.
For corporate teams, we run retreats and team-building and creative resets. Your people will talk about it on Monday morning. They will still be talking about it in October.
For community organizations, we run trauma-informed sessions, youth programs, sensory-friendly workshops, and donated experiences for the people doing the hard work in the world.
For events, we host birthdays, bachelorettes, weddings, family parties, and custom installations.
For collectors, we sell original work and take commissions. Every dollar funds community programs, scholarships, research, and donated workshops.
What we stand for.
One million humans. Laughing till they snort. Remembering who they were before the world made them serious.
That's the count we're going for.
Low-waste paint. Recycled yarn, wool, textile. Second-life materials for second-life humans.
We're working on the carbon footprint. We're working on the supply chain. We're working on the count.
Who runs this place.
This is a family affair. A mother-daughter-dog-founded, owned, and operated studio. We feel pretty lucky to be able to say that.
Come play. Drop your phone in the basket. Take your shoes off. The room is waiting.